


Windows

by Hawkeye_918



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Family, Gen, brief mentions of violence but nothing as bad as canon, implied dyslexic scout, this is a little longer than i intended but whoopsies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 14:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17788721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hawkeye_918/pseuds/Hawkeye_918
Summary: A series of snippets from Jeremy's life, glimpses into what his life was like before he became the Scout.





	Windows

**Author's Note:**

> this is my second ever tf2 fic and thank you guys for the nice comments on my first one! this one kinda took me longer than I thought it would but I really hope you all like it!

The first time Jeremy thought that maybe he wasn’t like the other kids, he was about six years old. Yesterday’s schoolwork had been to trace the shapes of some numbers, and the resulting homework had been for the students to try to draw the numbers on their own. 

****

He was beaming with pride when he placed his completed work on the desk. Jeremy had done his homework all by himself for the first time. Ma had been dead on her feet when she’d come home from work, even more so than usual, and he wasn’t about to ask his brothers for help. He smoothed out the sheet of paper and sighed contentedly.

****

The boy who sat next to Jeremy in class was generally inclined to eat paste and stab the other students with freshly sharpened pencils. “Watcha got there?”, the kid-- Nicky or something-- said, moving his shifty eyes to Jeremy’s homework. Before Jeremy could say anything, the boy snatched up the paper and scrutinized it. He found something humorous, apparently, because he laughed loud enough to draw the attention of the whole room. Jeremy was confused. 

****

“Hey everybody, Jeremy wrote his numbers backwards! He even got his name wrong!”, Nicky cackled with cruel glee. He held the paper aloft, just out of Jeremy’s reach. The other children swarmed around them, curious. The paper went from one sticky little hand to another, all the while Jeremy was trying in vain to get his homework back.

****

Usually, Jeremy liked attention. He liked attention when he was hanging upside down from the monkey bars. He liked attention when he was picked as the line leader or when he made his brothers laugh so hard soda came out of their noses. 

****

He was not enjoying the attention right now. In fact, he wanted to crawl under the desk and hide.

****

The sound of someone clearing their throat sent the kids scurrying back to their seats. Only Jeremy remained standing. The teacher had seemingly entered the room sometime during the chaos. “What’s going on?”, she asked, eyebrows narrowed. The crumpled remains of Jeremy’s hard work sailed through the air and bounced off of his head. One of the other kids giggled. The teacher marched over and picked up the piece of paper. She uncrumpled it and examined it. 

****

Some of the 2’s, 4’s, and 7’s were backwards. The second “e” in “Jeremy” was missing. She eyed the paper warily. Sure, the boy was  _ six, _ but the mistakes were still plentiful. She had noticed this type of thing frequently throughout the year. It had taken him much too long to learn how to read, much too long to do anything scholastic. But then again she hadn’t had much faith in this kid even back in September.

****

“I ain’t dumb, Miss.” Jeremy whispered, staring down at the ground. 

****

“Of course not.” The teacher said softly, trying just as hard to convince Jeremy of this as she was trying to convince herself.

 

 

* * *

 

****

  
  


The weekend was just as busy a time in Jeremy’s household as the weekdays. Sundays were for attending mass, of course. But Saturdays were for grocery shopping and other errands.

 

However, the family did not own a car. They would not get one until Jeremy was nearly fourteen. So in the years before then, for anywhere they couldn’t walk, the bus or subway was a necessity. It was just as well. Most of the time it seems it would be easier to find the lost city of Atlantis than to find a decent parking spot in Boston. 

 

Summer in the city was something to behold. The sunlight reflecting off the glass of skyscraper windows was blinding and the heat radiated up from the pavement in stifling waves. But despite the humidity, the streets were alive with activity. A vendor pushed his hot dog cart down the sidewalk, bringing with him the smells of sauerkraut and mustard. Children chased each other through the crowds, laughing and shouting. From somewhere in the distance, a car radio played loud swing music.

 

Ten year old Jeremy was riding on the Red Line train. Ma would always bring a few of her boys with her to help carry the groceries home, and today, Jeremy was one of the chosen ones. They were making the trip home, and he was daydreaming. He stared out the window and watched as the brownstones faded from view as they headed underground. He listened to the familiar  _ clack-clack  _ of the train car, pointedly attempting to tune out the ruckus being made by his three other brothers who’d come along. Ordinarily, he would’ve participated, likely being the loudest and most disruptive. Ordinarily, Ma would’ve told them to knock off the racket by now. But that could wait a minute.

 

“What are you thinkin’ about, sweetheart?” Ma asked. She was standing up, giving her sons more space to sit. She held onto a support pole with one hand, and used the other to balance a heavy brown paper bag on her hip.

 

“D’you think I’ll be somethin’ when I grow up, Ma?” Jeremy asked. 

 

Her brow furrowed. “Whaddaya mean?” Her main goal for all her boys was that they would grow into happy, healthy, hopefully employed adults. The fact that her youngest was already thinking about this only reminded her how big he was getting. 

 

“I mean, d’you think I’ll be somethin?” He repeated, unsure how else he might phrase his question.

 

Ma looked at him for a moment. She let go of the pole and lightly pinched his cheek. “Whateva you do, baby, you’ll be the best.”

 

Jeremy rubbed his cheek.  _ I’ll be the best _ , he thought to himself. 

 

“PUT. THE. WATERMELON. DOWN.” Ma shouted, wagging her finger at her third youngest son, who was holding said produce like a quarterback about to throw a tight spiral.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  


  
  


It was dinnertime, a few days after the conversation on the subway. Ma and her sons crowded around the table. There was no conversation this evening, just the sounds of chewing and silverware going  _ tink _ against plates. “Is no one gonna mention the elephant in the room?” Ma asked, gesturing with her fork.

 

The boys, in different stages of dishevelment, sporting scrapes and scratches, looked from one to another nervously, yet silently daring someone to say something.

 

Ma continued, “I know you boys busted outta school. I know you got into a fight with those kids from uptown again. I just don’t know why you thought you could hide it from me.” She calmly took a drink of water.  “It’s June, school’s out in a week-- couldn’t you all just wait?”

 

“Toldja she’d notice!” Pete shouted, socking Charlie in the arm.

 

Charlie grimaced. “A’course she’d notice! You got a black eye, ya chucklehead!” This started a table-wide shouting match, with insults, accusations, and a spoonful of peas flying. 

 

And they had won the fight earlier that afternoon. Imagine if they had lost it.

 

“BOYS!”, Ma shouted, and they all clammed up. “If I ever-- and I mean ever-- find out any of you played hooky again…” She trailed off, her voice as cold as ice. Most of the boys got the message.

 

“You mean you don’t care that we got in a fight?” Billy asked, trying not to press their collective luck. He nervously tugged at his torn sleeve.

 

Ma narrowed her eyes at him and sighed. “Of course I don’t want you all fightin’. But I know I can’t stop you. And at least if you’re beatin’ some other guys up, you ain’t beatin’ each other up. But tell me just one thing.” She paused for emphasis.

 

She smiled, something mirthful twinkling in her eyes. “Was it a fair fight?”

 

Freddy grinned. “Eight on six, but havin’ Jeremy as our eighth guy means we might as well have seven.”

 

The table erupted in laughter, save for Ma and Jeremy. “It ain’t my fault you guys didn’t wait up!”, Jeremy said loudly, standing up from the table. Ma shot him a look and he sat back down again.

 

Ma shook her head and sighed. “There’s a new bottle of iodine in the medicine cabinet.”

 

Jeremy looked down at the table. If he wanted in on the fun, he had better get to the next fight as soon as he could. As early as he could.

 

_ That’s what I’ll do _ , he thought.  _ I gotta get faster. I gotta be the best. _

 

 

* * *

 

  
  


  
  


Jeremy was working part time as a fry cook in a burger joint ten minutes away from his family’s apartment. It was his third job in the last six months. He was a junior in high school but already eighteen going on nineteen. He’d had to repeat a couple years along the way.

 

Jeremy sunk the basket of potato wedges into the fryer. He whistled a little ditty to himself as he worked. He was thinking hard about nothing in particular, deep inside his own head. 

 

When there was no one to talk to, that is where he’d usually find himself. Jeremy’s mind was a fascinating place. His thoughts came in a mile a minute, the same way he talked. One little distraction would send him on one tangent, then another, until he couldn’t remember what he’d even been on about in the first place. 

 

First Jeremy had been thinking about some monster movie that had been on TV last night, which got him wondering about how they did the over-the-top make-up, which lead to him remembering that the pharmacy on Dorchester Street had a new display in the window, but Dorchester Street also had a good Polish deli, and he was a little hungry, now that he thought about it.

 

Jeremy took the basket out of the fryer. He was trying to remember the name of a type of lunch meat when his boss, a heavyset and balding man, walked into the kitchen.

 

“Jeremy.” He said the name with thinly veiled distaste.

 

“Yo”, Jeremy replied, turning around to face him.

 

“This is never easy to say, Jeremy.” The boss began, actually finding it fairly easy. “You’re fired.”

 

The gears turned in Jeremy’s head as he processed the information. “Why?”, he asked, more than a little confused.

 

“Your performance lately has been subpar. Turn in your uniform.” He was lying. Truth be told, he just thought Jeremy was irritating and a nuisance and wanted him gone.

 

Jeremy stopped and thought for a moment. He needed this job. Maybe he hadn’t been the best kid. Maybe he had lapsed in a few responsibilities and such. He hadn’t gone to confession in a while. Jeremy couldn’t go in that confessional and kneel behind the screen and say he felt bad about drinking and swearing and bashing idiots’ heads in when frankly, he didn’t feel bad at all. He had his faults, but he wasn’t about to lie to a priest. 

 

“Well?” The man asked, indignant that Jeremy hadn’t responded yet.

 

Jeremy paused as realization dawned on him.  _ Oh, yeah! Kielbasa. That’s what I was thinking of!,  _ Jeremy said to himself as he wound up his punch. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jeremy shivered and turned up the collar on his coat. He was unsure whether a late night trip to the store for some snacks was worth freezing his balls off.

 

The city could be lovely at Christmas time. Storefronts elaborately decorated with festive displays of their wares. Icicles perfectly capturing and reflecting the city lights. The excitement and wonder all around, of people young and old giddy for the holidays, gives the air an electric feel.

 

But in January? That’s when a Boston winter lives up to its reputation. Bleak skies. Grayish-brownish and crunchy snow piled up on sidewalks. Freezing wind being sucked through the spaces between buildings, making the bitter chill that much more bitter. Dismal, dreary, and depressing.

 

Jeremy rubbed his arms in an attempt to warm them up. It did little good. His hands were nearly numb as it was. He would’ve worn gloves, but he thought he looked cooler without them.

 

Jeremy heard footsteps coming from behind and moved to the side so whoever it was could pass him. After a second, when no one did, he glanced back over his shoulder.

It was a man with a trench coat and a matching fedora, and no discernable face in the dark.

 

_ Well, that’s frickin’ creepy _ , Jeremy thought, and walked a little faster. The man sped up as well.

 

Jeremy experimentally turned down a side street. The man followed. 

 

Jeremy would’ve liked to turn around and ask this guy what his fucking problem was, but he looked like he might be packing heat, and all Jeremy had on him was his pocket knife and a half eaten bag of chips.

 

So he broke into a dead sprint instead. The other man maintained his pace, jogging a good fifteen or so feet behind. Jeremy used his knowledge of the labyrinthine streets and alleyways to try and ditch this guy, but there was no such luck. “Persistent bastard”, he muttered under his breath. Even when his persuer’s breathing became more labored, he still maintained the chase. 

 

Jeremy skidded around a corner on a patch of black ice and found himself at a dead end. Cornered. He had turned down the wrong alley. Taking a deep breath, Jeremy spun on his heel and breezed right past the other man, right out of the alley. “Stop!”, the man panted.

 

Jeremy didn’t. He ran faster, down another side way, and kept running, even when he couldn’t see trench coat dude anymore. When he found himself face to face with a chain link fence, he simply hauled himself up and over and kept going. 

 

He stopped by a nearby dumpster and crouched in the shadows, pocket knife at the ready. He waited like that for some time, suspecting the man would track him down again. But he did not.

 

* * *

 

 

As unnerved as Jeremy was, he tried not to think about the strange man who’d followed him. That’s how Jeremy dealt with his problems. He avoided them. 

 

Jeremy had been living in his own apartment for the better part of eight months. It was bizarre to be all by himself after nearly twenty-three years (his birthday would be at the end of the month) of sharing a cramped residence with eight other people. He could make his living space his own now, though. He could decorate with sports memorabilia and hang a tasteful pin-up poster in his very own room. He could live off of chocolate pudding and Coke and there was no one to stop him. It was supremeless. 

 

As much of a craphole apartment as it was, it was still a little expensive for Jeremy and he’d been looking for a roommate. As a matter of fact, just last night someone had responded to his listing, saying they’d like to come over and take a look at the place at 6 o’clock.

 

It was currently 5:52 pm. _ Knock knock knock _ . Perfect. Just when that western story on the radio was starting to get interesting. And he’d really wanted to know if the sheriff would die, too. Jeremy turned off the dial. 

Jeremy walked over to the door and swung it open. “Heya pal, I’m-- “

 

Oh. 

 

Of course.

 

This is what he gets for not looking through the peephole.  

 

Trench coat man pushed past Jeremy into the apartment and slammed the door shut behind him. He turned to look at Jeremy, and it was then that Jeremy noticed the other man’s face was obscured by sunglasses and some kind of ski mask.

 

“What the fuck do you want, you freaky-ass bastard?!”, Jeremy shouted, shoving the man backwards.

 

“A message.”, he responded gruffly.

 

Before Jeremy could ask what in the fresh hell he meant by that, the man swiftly undid the belt of his trench coat and threw it open.

 

Jeremy reflexively put his hands up over his eyes, but slowly lowered them when he noticed light coming in through the gaps between his fingers.

 

The man had a small, grainy, black-and-white TV strapped to his chest. On the TV, there seemed to be video of an older woman, her hair dark with a streak of gray. She puffed idly on a cigarette.

 

“What”, Jeremy managed, confused and a little dumbstruck.

 

“A hello would be nice. And don’t stand there gaping, boy.” The woman said, annoyed. 

 

“How are you--”

 

“Live transmission”, she interrupted. “Your little jog the other day put us behind schedule.”

 

Jeremy almost apologized, but decided not to. He wasn’t sorry. “Who are you and how didja find me?”

 

The woman snuffed out her cigarette, produced another, and lit it. She took a drag before responding. “Who I am is classified. But you? You are Jeremy R. Patrick of South Boston, Massachusetts. Height five foot-ten, weight one hundred and thirty pounds. Date of birth--”

 

“I’m stoppin’ you right there, lady. I don’t know where the hell you’re gettin’ this from, but I ain’t gonna deal with no stalker like you or whatever this douche in the sunglasses is.” Jeremy bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from going any further. He didn’t want to get carried away as he tended to whenever he ran his mouth..

 

The woman chuckled, but the sound was cruel and cold. “I’m well aware of your temper and more… violent tendencies, Mr. Patrick.”

 

Jeremy hated being referred to with respectful terms. A lifetime of only being called ‘Mr’ or ‘sir’ if you’re being patronized or in trouble will do that to you. Jeremy pretended to inspect his fingernails, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. On the inside, he was damn nervous. “It’s nothin’ you can prove”, he replied.

 

Her eyes narrowed. “Only last week you engaged in an altercation in the parking lot of a fried chicken establishment in Brockton.” She leaned forward in her seat and took another drag on her cigarette. “I believe you used a baseball bat to relieve a man of his teeth.”

 

Jeremy shrugged. “Watcha gonna do. ‘Sides, it’s not like I knocked out all of his teeth, just most of ‘em.”

 

Another puff on the cigarette. “Perhaps you are some hooligan, some juvenile punk. But there is promise for you yet.”

 

Jeremy laughed indignantly. “What are ya gonna do?” He snorted. “Rehabilitate me?”

 

“The opposite.” The woman smiled a calculating smile. “How would you like a job utilizing your best skills? Running fast and beating people senseless?”

 

Jeremy’s interest was piqued. “Yeah?” he asked, hopeful.

 

The woman nodded. “My employer is prepared to pay you handsomely, Mr. Patrick. You and eight like-minded individuals will fight together, relying on your greatest strengths.”

 

Jeremy shivered with anticipation. “Where do I sign up?”, he asked. It sure sounded exciting.

 

The woman’s smile widened. “Right here.”

 

And the messenger, who Jeremy had forgotten about upto that point, produced a pen and a packet of paper. A contract of some kind, he noted upon closer inspection. Well, he certainly wasn’t going to read all of that. He skimmed the first line then flipped to the back page and put his signature on the line with the big ‘X’.

 

“Wonderful. You leave for Arizona in two days.” The woman snubbed out her cigarette, the action almost ceremonious. 

 

“I-- wait, what?” Jeremy sputtered.

 

“Your lease and flight arrangements will be taken care of. You will tell your friends and family that you have accepted a job out in the Southwest. If you  _ must _ elaborate, you will say that you are now in the employ of Reliable Excavation and Demolition. And  _ nothing  _ else.”

 

Jeremy’s face scrunched in confusion. “Wait, I’m gonna be blowin’ stuff up?”

 

The woman on the TV rolled her eyes. “We have someone else lined up for that position. More information will be coming to you shortly. Remember, you have forty-eight hours to prepare. Welcome to your new life as a mercenary, Mr. Patrick.”

 

With that, the transmission cut out and the TV shut off. Without a word, the messenger left. Just as well, Jeremy was too stunned to say or do anything. All he could manage was to sit on the floor, head in his hands, eyes wide.

 

Mercenary.

 

The word made his body shudder with some ineffable emotion. He had some thinking to do.

 

God, he needed a beer.

 

* * *

 

  
  


 

As Jeremy stood in the airport, he took a deep breath and paused, collecting his thoughts.

 

Besides the obvious stuff like clothes, he’d brought things like the dog tags he always wore. Athletic wraps to protect his fingers from breaking when he inevitably punched the lights out of someone. And of course, his trusty baseball bat. 

 

He’d been told he’d receive a uniform and appropriate weaponry when he arrived. He’d also been told he would not be referred to as ‘Jeremy’, nor he was not supposed to let anyone know his real name.Instead, for the duration of his contract, he would be referred to by his job description-- the Scout. Everything else he had to know, he would learn at a meeting with his new teammates when he arrived. Jeremy was basically vibrating with nervous and eager energy.

 

But the meeting would have to wait, because his connecting flight from Chicago was delayed. Jeremy sat in one of those uncomfortable chairs at the gate, jiggling his leg and drumming his fingers on the armrest. 

 

“You alright son?” came the voice of the elderly man sitting next to him. He closed his newspaper and folded it, and turned to look at Jeremy with kind worry. 

 

Jeremy nodded and looked over at the man. “Oh, I’m fine. Just startin’ a new job.”   
  
The old man smiled softly. “Worried you won’t do well?”

 

Jeremy shook his head. He hadn’t forgotten his mother’s words from thirteen years earlier. “Nah”, he said, chuckling. “I’m gonna be the best.”

 

The flight itself went without incident.

 

The first thing Jeremy noticed about Arizona was how warm it was. He had expected it to be warm, obviously, but from his point of reference it felt like spring. The second thing he noticed was how absolutely dry it was. The air was dry, the ground was dry, his throat was even a little dry. 

 

The car that picked him up at the airport had most definitely gone over the speed limit, but as far as Jeremy was concerned, it hadn’t gone fast enough. Jeremy could barely contain his glee.

 

He found what was going to be his room fairly easy and didn’t pause to look inside, opting to just open the door, put down his stuff then leave again. The meeting had started ten minutes ago and he didn’t want to keep his teammates waiting. All nine of them had been hired together, it seemed, so all nine of them were going to need the information from the introductory briefing.

 

Jeremy was never the type to worry about first impressions. He was so awesome, who wouldn’t like him immediately, right? 

 

While he would usually tell himself this, he knew right then and there that already showing up late wouldn’t look good, and would you want to piss off a room full of hired killers?

 

He followed the signs that lead to the meeting room. Outside the door, he smoothed down his hair, made sure his clothes looked alright (just a jacket and jeans, nothing spiffy), and tried to steady his breathing.

 

Now or never.

He opened the door and his mind raced with all the negative possibilities. 

 

This was going to be the bad kind of attention, he could feel it. Like when Ma found that nudie magazine under his bed. Or when he flew over the handlebars on his bike and ate pavement. Or like that time he choked on a wonton in the middle of a Chinese restaurant. 

 

He blinked rapidly a few times under the harsh fluorescent light of the room. When he could properly register things, he realized he was being stared at. 

 

He processed the appearances of the other men in the room. No two of them looked like they were dressed for the same occasion. But all of them appeared older, bigger, and stronger than he was. It was a little hard to tell because they were all sitting down, but hey. 

 

Jeremy’s entrance was met with a few nods and polite hellos. But the impossibly large man at the end of the table regarded him like he was staring into his soul. 

 

“Who is little child?” The man rumbled in a deep, Russian-accented voice.

 

Scout froze, more than a little intimidated. 

 

“You must be our new Scout”, came the voice of the man in the cowboy hat seated two chairs away. He offered a friendly smile

 

The young man formerly known as Jeremy grinned. “Yeah”, he said, taking the last empty seat at the table. “Yeah I am.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this was all just because I realized I like writing Scout a lot? oh well. but thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please leave kudos/comment, it encourages me. my tf2 tumblr is @teleported-bread if you're interested


End file.
